


Apollo's Halo

by ConcerningConstellations



Series: the glass in your mouth; the cracks in your halo [1]
Category: Greek Mythology, Greek and Roman Mythology, Original Work
Genre: Aesthetics, Age, Bitterness, Character Study, Freestyle, Poetry, Time to lose followers I guess, Youth, and it's ugly as hell, broken and reckless greek gods are my aesthetic, personal, rough patch., stylized, this is the coming of age of a god, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 12:13:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16118222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConcerningConstellations/pseuds/ConcerningConstellations
Summary: “you are hollow,” she notes, nodding to the sunwhat was then a ring of fire, a fickle and pale imprint—a halo gone too far.-(OR: Apollo burns).





	Apollo's Halo

**Author's Note:**

> i'm tired and useless and in need of room to breathe.

Apollo’s teeth are white  
like the insides of stars,  
and his laugh sounds like a supernova slowed down.  
his skin is of honeycomb,  
and his hair slips through their fingers  
like sunlight  
and smoke.

-

Apollo was born in a pool of sunlight  
and blood,  
to the battlecry of his twin sister cringing against the brightness.  
he hears her, and their mother, whom had split open upon his stage entrance.  
he hears her sing,  
or maybe scream,  
but either way  
it is poetry.

-

Apollo plays perfection beneath the olive branches, watches as the crowds gather,  
his children,  
little chess pieces.  
one song after another, they surge,  
an army to rival Poseidon’s,  
and when this gets boring, he plays something higher, out of tune,  
and they war, war, war,  
centuries of steel and iron and wine  
that paint his doorstep the color of a sunrise.

-

Apollo, beneath the skin, is golden,  
molten ichor,  
and when it spills, Ares watches  
as the townspeople drop.  
they are running towards him, towards the sun,  
running with wax wings,  
running towards the cliff that separates them from freedom.  
Apollo waits, lips bloody, grin wild,  
as they jump, go to join him.  
they miss.

-

Apollo sits with Artemis during the eclipse.  
she was born only moments before him, but she is older,  
is greyer,  
wears wisdom like a dagger at the hip.  
“you are hollow,” she notes, nodding to the sun  
what was then a ring of fire, a fickle and pale imprint—  
a halo gone too far.  
Apollo recoils from her skin, from her smell of forest and lake water,  
dry leaves, permafrost.  
“i am holy,” he corrects,  
and the moon moves aside.

-

Apollo lies under the desert sun, plucks at strings,  
as the men move rocks.  
they are building something for other gods, younger gods, gods more gold than bronze.  
Apollo sits and watches them for twenty years,  
until the sands sink into him,  
and the heat goes down into his lungs,  
creates artwork of his innards.  
after, he breathes fire, bleeds ash, rises with the sun.  
Alexandria burns on his horizon.

-

Apollo has soft lips that hurt to kiss.  
he touches mortals with hands that leave sunburns.  
his curls bounce, his skin glows.  
he pours sunlight down into them, lets them taste what it was like  
to be the cosmos, the Sahara, the bitter aftertaste  
of ultraviolet.  
he shares with them the infinity behind his lips,  
eager to empty it out.  
   (when they are finished,  
   they do not walk with him.  
   they stay in the sheets, stare up at nothing,  
   until Hades helps them forward).

-

Apollo has a bow unlike his sister’s.  
he drags it across the violin, the notes fitting together like constellations,  
every crescendo a bullseye.  
they watch him play, held captive,  
even when he demands them to leave, leave, _leave me alone._  
they stay to hear what they imagine the beginning of the world must have sounded like,  
the symphony that sliced out the planets, the stars,  
the deep lull of Forever.  
and they become Forever, there on the shores,  
their skeletons baked white  
by the aging of a god.

-

Apollo walks.  
he walks every continent twice, sails over seas, keeping the sun to his back.  
he writes sonnets and then burns them,  
drowns them,  
buries them beneath the kingdoms he brought to ruins.  
he writes of love, of lust, but mostly of bitterness.  
these, he reads to the moon.  
it’s not her fault, he knows.  
the cold always suited her.

-

Apollo coughs up ichor somewhere north of the equator, lays down, stays down  
for centuries.  
the birds make nests in his hair.  
the winds tell him stories.  
he watches the sun come and go,  
rise and die,  
thinks maybe,  
if he was lucky,  
he might do the same.

-

The day is ending.  
Apollo watches the sky go from blue to bronze to black,  
feels the eyes of a wolf stare down at him, hears her howling from the mountains.  
_“rest,”_ calls the wild,  
and he feels his eyes close;  
his fists unclench.

**Author's Note:**

> maybe one day i'll write something meaningful, but that day is not today.


End file.
